


weathered

by pipistrelle



Series: there is a season [3]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Fluff, Gen, daily life at discipline, everything else is unimportant, the real point of this story is rosethorn wearing lark's clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-17 00:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1367443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipistrelle/pseuds/pipistrelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the four young mages of Discipline, an unexpected storm leads to a long-expected confirmation. Just a silly little flufflet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Briar's Book and The Circle Opens.

“Rosethorn!” Tris called, barreling down the stairs and fetching up against the door to Rosethorn’s room, beside her workshop. Both were closed for the night; Tris didn’t know what time it was, sometime past midnight, and hoped that Rosethorn and Lark weren’t out at services still. She pounded on the door, ignoring Little Bear as he leaped out of his sleeping basket and bounded over to see what the fuss was about. “Rosethorn! Wake up!”

 “I’m awake,” Rosethorn said drily. Tris whirled to see her standing in the doorway to Lark’s room, hands on her hips, her features set into the look of expectant calm that she liked to wear to lull her victims into complacency. The effect would have been menacing, if it weren’t for her clothes.

Tris wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Rosethorn in anything other her pine-green habit, but now she wore an undyed cotton shift -- hastily thrown on, to judge from the wrinkles and creases -- and a pair of trousers that were clearly Lark’s. For one thing, they were too long for Rosethorn; for another, Tris could not imagine Rosethorn buying any article of clothing with such gaudy yellow stripes.

 “Um,” Tris said, feeling her face begin to burn as she realized what she’d interrupted.

 “You could start by saying who’s dying,” said Rosethorn, helpfully. “I know someone must be, since that’s the only reason I can think of to cause such a racket in the middle of the night.”

 “Morning,” a nightgown-clad Lark mumbled, leaning on the open door behind Rosethorn. A brush of fingertips over Rosethorn’s shoulder smoothed out the wrinkles in the shift, leaving it looking newly-pressed.

 “Morning,” Rosethorn amended. She squinted at Tris. “Well?”

 Thunder crashed overhead, startling Little Bear into a yelp and jolting Tris back to her senses. “It’s going to hail,” she said quickly. “Soon. Forty minutes at the latest.”

 Sandry stuck her head out of her room, covering a yawn; Daja thumped down the stairs to see what the noise was about. Briar was last out, fixing Tris with a glare as he carefully shut his door, concealing the rat’s-nest of blankets he used for a bed. “‘S gonna what?” he demanded. “What’d you wake everyone for?”

 “Hail,” said Tris. At his blank look, she explained, “Ice falling from the sky.”

 Briar, who had never seen snow, blinked at her in bemusement. “So? Ice don’t hurt you.”

 “It does when it’s the size of pebbles and falling down from the top of a storm,” Tris retorted.

 “But we’re inside,” Daja pointed out. She sat on the bottom step, resting her chin in her hands. “It can’t be that dangerous.”

 “Not for us -- for the garden.” Tris turned back to Rosethorn. “I thought --”

 Rosethorn nodded. “You were right to think.”

 Briar’s eyes widened, all his sullenness falling away in a breath. “But the crocuses are just coming in,” he said. “The basil ain’t more than shoots! And the beans --”

 “Exactly,” said Rosethorn. “So stop maundering and fetch the stakes -- the long ones, mind. Wood and metal both. And a spool of the trellis wire.” Briar nodded and darted into her workroom. Rosethorn turned to Tris. “How long did you say we have?”

 “Thirty minutes, now,” Tris answered, letting her power roll up into the gathering storm. “Maybe thirty-five.”

 “I’ll get the cloths,” said Lark. She beckoned to Sandry and disappeared into her own workshop. A moment later the two of them returned, clutching large bundles of canvas. “Lead the way,” Lark said to Rosethorn with a sleepy smile.

 The next twenty minutes were a blur of chaos as the six of them worked frantically to rig a shelter over the most fragile of Rosethorn’s charges. Daja helped Briar fetch and carry the long, heavy stakes and spools of wire used to build trellises and guide the growth of trees. The stakes they hammered into the ground like tent-poles at even intervals around the garden, with the wire crisscrossed from one pole to the next, forming a wide mesh over vulnerable plants. Lark and Sandry unrolled the sturdy canvas sheets over the nets of wire, then went around them from edge to edge, laying out lengths of thread that wriggled into the shapes of signs for shielding and protection. Rosethorn stood in the center of the garden, barking orders like a general directing her troops. After twenty minutes the clouds opened up, splattering them all with a burst of freezing rain before Tris could push it away.

 “That’s enough!” Rosethorn called after they had labored for what felt like hours, with the rain cascading down the edges of Tris’ shield and thunder roaring over their heads. Lark ushered the girls inside. Briar protested until Rosethorn gripped him by the ear and marched him into the house, shutting the door behind him just as the first hailstones pattered on the roof.

 “It wasn’t enough,” Briar moaned. “Those poor ivies will be all bruised in the morning.”

 “Then we’ll help them in the morning,” said Rosethorn. “We’d be looking at a lot more damage if it wasn’t for Tris.”

 Tris scowled as she felt a blush begin to creep up her face at this unexpected praise. It deepened to a burn as Rosethorn turned to look at her bedraggled, mud-spattered family and nodded approval. “Well done, all of you. And my thanks.”

 Lark grinned. The children murmured and looked away, embarrassed and pleased. It had been years since any of them had feared Rosethorn, but her praise was still rare enough to be a source of pride.

 “And now, back to bed,” added Lark. “Before any more excitement comes knocking.” She smiled at them all, kissed the top of Sandry’s head, and disappeared into her room, leaving the door open enough to let out a wedge of light from her lightning-stone lamp.

 Rosethorn hesitated for a moment, glancing at the four of them, then followed Lark and shut the door.

  _Well,_ Daja said into the startled silence. _That answers that question._

 _That weren’t a question,_ Briar said scornfully. _We all knew they’ve been together for ages. Maybe at least now they’ll stop pretending like they think we don’t know. We’re thirteen, not stupid._

 _You could easily be both,_ Daja pointed out.

 Tris had been turning steadily redder; now she was almost scarlet. “Bed,” she squeaked, and fled up the stairs.

 Briar stared after her in amazement. _What’s got Coppercurls in a twist?_

 _Some of the more traditional merchant families get upset about women... being with women_ , Sandry explained. _I’ve been to Ninver. A lot of the high society ladies are awfully uptight there. Worse than usual, I mean._

 Briar snorted. _Suits her, then, doesn’t it?_

  _Leave her alone,_ Sandry ordered. _She doesn’t need you winding her up._

Briar reached over to tweak one of Sandry’s braids and grinned as she slapped his hand away. _Lay off, I’m only joking_ , he told her. _She saved half the garden, didn’t she? She can be as uptight as she wants, far as I’m concerned._

 _Then stop yammering about it and go to bed. Sounds like you’ve got a lot of work in the morning_ , Sandry said sweetly. Briar wrinkled his nose in disgust at her tone, but she had already turned and slipped back into her room.

 _I just don’t get how Coppercurls could not know about them,_ Briar said to Daja, jerking his head towards Lark’s closed door. _I mean, we all knew. Didn’t you know?_

 Daja shrugged. _I figured it was Lark and Rosethorn’s business. It still is. Don’t pester them about it._

  _Do I look like I’d enjoy being hung in the well?_ Briar demanded. _All you girls think I’ve got chaff for brains_.

  _Then maybe you do,_ she teased. She elbowed him fondly as she trudged by on her way up the stairs.

 Left alone in the kitchen, with the hail rattling on the roof and only the pain of pummelled plants awaiting him back in his room, Briar sat on the floor and scratched the ears of the only creature in Discipline who understood him.

“Girls,” he sighed. Little Bear barked and licked his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the storm, Tris and Rosethorn have a conversation about choice. (WARNING for mentions of homophobia and homophobic violence.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the incomparable sitonyourhands (http://sitonyourhands.tumblr.com/). All my thanks. :D Any remaining mistakes or poor word choices are entirely mine.
> 
> (Additonal note: this was written before the Great Tumblr Larkpocalypse of June 13th, but I'm convinced this can still fit with Lark's backstory.)

_Are you still upset about Lark and Rosethorn?_

Tris paused in the menial task of washing the dishes from the cottage's midday meal and turned to glare at Sandry. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sandry brushed aside the lie with an impatient wave of her hand. She had come out of Lark's workroom and leaned against the wall beside Tris, scrutinizing her sister the way she would try to figure out the workings of a complicated knot she'd never seen before. _You've been acting strange around them ever since the hailstorm. Is it because you found out they're together?_

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Tris snapped. She could feel her face reddening, which only irritated her further. "And don't you know it's rude to pry?"

In truth, she had been spending the last week trying with her all her might to ignore the sharp, contemptuous voice in the back of her head that sounded suspiciously like Aunt Uraelle, constantly muttering that what Lark and Rosethorn were wasn't _decent_ , wasn't _right_. She thought she'd scrubbed the last trace of her vicious old aunt out of her brain long ago, and the discovery that she was wrong had put her entirely out of sorts. The only thing she was sure of was that she didn't want to talk to Sandry about it. Taking a pile of clean plates, she stomped over to stow them in the cabinets, hoping the other girl would get the hint and leave her alone.

Sandry just followed her. _I know people don't like it in Ninver, but -- this is Lark and Rosethorn! What people back there think, that doesn't change the way you feel about them._ She hesitated. _Does it?_

 _No!_ Tris snapped. _I mean -- I don't want it to! I just -- I have to think about it, and I can't do that with you pestering me all the time!_

Sandry's eyes widened as she glanced at something over Tris' shoulder. Tris whirled and saw Rosethorn standing in the door to garden, watching them both with a thoughtful expression. Seeing their stares, she smiled in a way that was not at all reassuring and crooked a finger at Tris. "Come along. You and I are going to take a walk in the garden."

Heat was already rising into Tris' face. "I can't, I have chores --"

"The others can do the chores," Rosethorn said with a meaningful look at Sandry. "I want to talk to you. _Now_."

Slowly, on legs that felt like overcooked noodles, Tris lurched out into the bright green afternoon in Rosethorn's wake. Her dread was quickly turning into rage -- who was Rosethorn to go around scaring people? Tris hadn't done anything wrong! It was Rosethorn who'd barged in making demands, Tris had only been minding her own business --

"Calm down," Rosethorn advised, smoothing her habit down against the turbulent winds that plucked at it. "I've gone to a lot of work to repair this garden, and I won't be happy if I have to patch up any more storm damage this week."

 _And what happens to me if you're unhappy_? Tris retorted in her head, but she kept her mouth shut and yanked on the dueling breezes that had flocked to comfort her and were fighting for space in the walled garden. Grumbling, the breezes dissipated, returning to their paths over the rolling hills on the other side of the wall, or skimming over the surface of the sea. Tris sighed as she sent them off, wishing she could go with them.

The air stilled. Rosethorn looked appraisingly at Tris. "You're upset about me and Lark."

The bottom dropped out of Tris' stomach. "I didn't say _anything_ ," she protested.

Rosethorn snorted. "You didn't have to say anything. You've been avoiding Lark for a week, and when you can't avoid her you act like she's some sort of plague-carrier. And don't think I haven't noticed how much twitchier you've been around _me_. You're about as subtle as a tidal wave, girl."

"I can't _help_ it!" Tris burst out. "I come from a decent family, my aunt always said, and she always told me that decent women don't --" she stopped, biting her trembling lip. "You all act as though you think I want to feel this way! I don't, it's _dreadful_ , I want to be able to just shrug and move on like the others do, but I can't, it isn't _right_!" She clapped her hands over her mouth, horrified at hearing the words of that sneering inner voice finally spoken aloud.

But Rosethorn didn't even spare her a glance. Instead the Earth dedicate turned away, kneeling and cupping her hands around the stem of a violet, careless of the dirt staining her habit. The head of the flower spread its petals a little wider, then relaxed, as though it were stretching after a long sleep. Tris stood trembling, waiting for the blow to fall -- for Rosethorn to wrap her in thorny vines, or tell her she had to leave Discipline, or something -- anything! But all Rosethorn did was sink her hands into the earth at the base of the flower. Tris forgot her anger and fear for a moment in the fascination of watching the ground shift as the threadlike roots moved under it, seeking Rosethorn's hands.

"A plant mage has to be concerned with soil just as much as with sun and rain," Rosethorn said, as though picking up the thread of a perfectly ordinary conversation. "City people don't realize that dirt can differ -- there are rich soils and poor ones, dry ones, clayey ones. And the soil you plant a seed in matters, because whatever is in that soil is going to become a part of the plant as it grows. Plant a flower in soil that's poisoned, and the poison will become part of the flower. Understand?"

Tris' nostrils flared, filling with sharp scent of ozone as lightnings prickled over her scalp in indignation. "You're saying I'm a _poisoned plant_?"

"No." Rosethorn looked coolly up at Tris. "I'm saying that plants don't have a choice in what they use to nourish themselves; they've only got what's in the ground where they're planted. But you aren't a plant, you're a person. You have a choice."

Tris flushed again. "I already told you, I don't want --"

"You couldn't help but absorb the poison you grew up with, " Rosethorn interrupted. Tris fell silent. "But you're old enough now that you can choose what you want to be a part of yourself. It's not an easy thing, and whining that you _can't help it_ won't make it easier."

Tris glared at her. Rosethorn stared levelly back, giving not an inch. Finally Tris said, "Who says the way I feel is poison?"

"It feels poisonous, doesn't it?" Rosethorn retorted. "It's hard to pass judgment on someone when they've done real harm. To judge and condemn people based on foolishness only rots the heart."

Tris opened her mouth, then closed it again. The lightning died out of her hair.

"Lark would tell you to accept your feelings," Rosethorn went on. "I say that's nonsense -- why accept a thing that does you no good and plenty of harm? Believe me, it's a kindness to tell you this now. This won't be the last time in your life you find some bit of nastiness inside you that crept up without you noticing and needs uprooting."

"It's not like just pulling up a weed! I don't know _how_ to feel different!"

Rosethorn's voice was as yielding as iron. "Then learn."

But when she spoke again, it was softer than Tris had ever heard her. "A very long time ago, Lark was badly beaten and left for dead by some people who thought it was wrong for her to be with a woman she loved. A friend from her tumbling troupe found her, and she survived. Others aren't so lucky."

For a second Tris was numb, not understanding. Then the words sank in, and she wished they hadn't. The thought of anyone hurting Lark, who was so gentle and kind -- Tris' stomach twisted, and this time she made no attempt to call off the winds that leaped over the wall to come to her. "That's _horrid_!" she cried, feeling the hot prick of tears behind her eyes. The winds were lifting her hair past the point where her kerchief could contain it, but she didn't care.

 _Tris_? It was Daja, startled and confused by the sudden burst of emotion that had interrupted her work in the forge.  _Is something wrong?_

 _Nothing!_ Tris slammed a block down across her link with Daja, shutting out her sister's voice. She shut out Sandry and Briar, too -- the last thing she wanted was for them to see anything of what Rosethorn had said in her mind. She didn't know whether she was protecting them, or Lark, or herself. She glared at Rosethorn, trembling. "Why would you tell me that?"

Rosethorn stood, still watching her -- like she was some kind of magical experiment that might explode, Tris thought bitterly. "Because," the woman said grimly, "you need to know what that kind of poison can do when it's fully grown."

Tris was crying in earnest now. "It was never like that at home, it was just talk -- we never -- I would _never_ \--"

"I know," Rosethorn told her. "I'm not worried you'll grow into that sort of monster. But you need to know that there are people like that in the world, and they faced the same choice that you do. Only they never had a chance to see that it is a choice -- or they didn't have anyone to explain to them what the consequences might be."

Tris dashed the tears from her eyes and groped for her handkerchief. "I'm sorry, all right?" she cried. "I don't want to hurt _anyone_!"

"You haven't," Rosethorn told her, gruff but not unkind. "Lark and I are tough old things, and we know you're better than the way you've been behaving. But I want to be sure you won't hurt anyone else -- especially not for nothing. Understand?"

Tris blew her nose and nodded. "Go on, then," Rosethorn told her, making a shooing motion with one hand. "Be off with you. And _think_ about what I've said." 

Tris nodded and ran back to the house. Rosethorn followed and was just in time to see Tris dash into the kitchen and throw her arms around a startled Lark, who nearly dropped the spools of thread she'd been holding. Lark moved to return the hug, but Tris had already let go and dashed up the stairs to her room.

Lark stared after her, bewildered. "Well, that's certainly a change," she said to empty air. Then she turned and saw Rosethorn leaning on the door to the garden, and understanding dawned in her eyes. "You talked to her, didn't you? Please tell me you didn't frighten her too badly."

"She'll be all right," Rosethorn replied.

Lark worried at a loose thread on her sleeve, concern in her face as she glanced back up the stairs. "I should go up there --"

"Later," said Rosethorn. "What she needs now is time to think."

Lark turned her attention back to Rosethorn, searching the other woman's face. Whatever she saw there reassured her, and she relaxed, smoothing her fingers over the thread she'd pulled loose. Obediently, it wove itself back into the fabric of her habit. "It went well, then?"

"Well enough," Rosethorn replied, thinking of Tris' tears and the lightning in her hair. Then Rosethorn thought of the hurt she'd seen in Lark's face every time Tris had flinched away from her -- a small hurt, and well-concealed, but a constant reminder of older, deeper wounds. 

Rosethorn couldn't heal those wounds any more than time and distance already had; and there was worse in Lark's past, agony that Rosethorn couldn't ease. But she could stop this hurt here and now, while it was small, and make sure it never cast its shadow over Lark's face again. Closing the few steps between them, Rosethorn pulled the other woman close and kissed her.

"More surprises," Lark said, pulling away. Her voice was low and soft and full of laughter as she rested her head on Rosethorn's shoulder. "What in Mila's name has gotten into everyone today? And look -- you're tracking dirt everywhere." She brushed her fingers lightly over Rosethorn's habit, then her own, grinning as the cloth shook clumps of garden dirt onto the floor. "Someone's got to sweep that up, or what sort of example will it set for the children?"

"Let go of me, then," Rosethorn grumbled, though it didn't come out half as irritably as she'd meant it to. Lark just smiled as Rosethorn went to get a broom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this because I didn't feel right leaving 'weathered' on the emotional note it ended on. I didn't know where else to take it, though, until last week I thought of Rosethorn's plant metaphor, which struck me as a way to talk about the toxic things we internalize without realizing it at the time. 
> 
> (Also, I hope it's clear that this is not an 'everything is all better after one talk' situation; it's the beginning of a process of growth for Tris, and the entire Discipline family.)
> 
> I think this fic was able to say a lot of what I wanted it to, but I realize this was probably rougher emotionally than a lot of my fluffier stuff, so please, please let me know if you felt it didn't do what it was supposed to. I'm open to all comments and suggestions, always, and if you were upset about anything here I want to hear about it. I love you all, and thank you for reading this far. <3


End file.
